


time will change (still the world remains the same)

by jaguarbird



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Other, Slice of Life, mention of other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 17:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 9,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21274787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaguarbird/pseuds/jaguarbird
Summary: A collection of short stories created for Far Crytober 2019, based on aprompt listcreated by tumblr user misclae and friends. Some works will include deputy ocs, a couple feature a gender-neutral deputy, and one has an NPC. Information on each piece will be provided at the start of the associated chapter.





	1. Orchard

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this is my first ever work on AO3, so I'm both excited and terrified. All of these stories are cross-posted from my [tumblr](https://jaguarbird.tumblr.com/), and even posting them there was an experience. So constructive critiques are welcomed!
> 
> Secondly, this was the first time I ever did a -tober thing and stuck with it for the whole month. I picked out about half of the prompts, yes, but I accomplished my goal of doing each of my selected prompts.
> 
> Finally, I will be featuring me and [my friend's](https://fatalbeans.tumblr.com/) twin oc deputies numerous times in this work. Their story is still being written - but it's been fully planned out. So I tried not to spoil too much of that official story in the pieces presented here.
> 
> And of course, thank you for reading! :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Seed, all by his lonesome.

Too often does the noise inside John Seed’s head rivals that of the noise outside. It is dulled and placated in a few ways – meticulously turning sinner into faithful; disappearing into the billowing clouds high above the county; a humbling sermon delivered with reverence by his older brother. Though one method in particular is rarely sought after for the window of opportunity is so slim.

Resting under the shade of the apple trees at the northern end of the valley.

The orchard isn’t massive, not meant for industrious work. But it sits tucked away just far enough from prying eyes where he can find some semblance of solitude. The faithful that tend to the trees are limited and knowingly keep their distance from John. Especially when he’s got his eyes closed, face upturned like a sunflower to the golden rays, and a mottled, half-eaten apple dangling precariously from inked fingers.

It is here, among the rustle of leaves and the scent of fresh earth, with the ripeness of harvest abound at arm’s reach, that his mind quiets the most. Where he can ease the racing thoughts down to a crawl, long enough to fall back onto better memories. The calm in the eye of the storm.

Watercolor dreams of disappearing into the woods with his brothers, spying blue jays flitting along the canopy, lush green moss between his fingers and toes, and the crisp flavor of apples on his tongue.


	2. Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faith finds the deputy.

Rook’s vision sways and flickers, trapped in a kaleidoscope of colors and lights, a sensory overload. They’re drowning, caught under noxious green waves, hearing dulled, lungs shrunk back from the barrier of their ribs. Everything hurts but they can’t feel it. Somehow, they claw and crawl until they’re upright, back against rough bark, dirt jammed under fingernails.

A flash blinds them, shocking sensitive nerves. Then a figure takes shape.

Long, honey-colored strands frame a soft face, tenderness swimming in emerald green eyes. A smile as white as her dress, though everything about her is bright. Lucent. Ethereal. And when she speaks, her voice rings like gentle chimes, sing-song and sweet, offering words of compassion and understanding. Rook can’t help but nod weakly into the warm palm at their cheek.

There’s a whisper of branches bending, leaves shifting against leaves, followed by a snapping that echoes in their head. The kind woman crouches before the deputy, one hand braced at their neck and the other holds a golden apple at their mouth. Without thought, Rook bites into the metallic skin and sweetness floods their tongue. So saccharine, it’s deadly.

Fatal.

They should be worried, they should stop chewing. But the juicy flesh is already swallowed and settled in their gut. They take another bite, guided easily by the woman, succumbing fully to the weight of the mist she exudes.

Tired eyes haze over with opaque ignorance, now blind to the truth. For only a snake could pull the fruit from its own garden.


	3. Tarot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reagan and Aeron test the divination waters with Hurk and Sharky.
> 
> Reagan belongs to me, Aeron belongs to [my friend.](https://fatalbeans.tumblr.com/)

“Go on, use your witchy-voodoo magic cards to tell me my future.” Sharky drops into a worn lawn chair by the fire, a fresh beer bottle between both hands in his lap.

Reagan scoffs at him while Aeron pauses briefly mid-shuffle.

“Excuse you,” Reagan retorts with an eye roll and a smack to the side of his leg. “First, ‘witchy’ and voodoo aren’t the same thing. Second, tarot doesn’t tell you your future. It’s more like a tool for guidance.”

“Oh, I thought that was alcohol,” chimes in Hurk, returning from a quick 'break’ in the woods (at least this time he made sure he was out of earshot before relieving himself). Aeron holds back her laugh but just barely, earning a light elbow jab from her older twin.

“We’ll keep it simple,” Reagan continues, “A three card reading. And since you’re so eager, Boshaw, you’ll be first.”

Aeron bends and shuffles the cards once more with deft fingers, then randomly draws three from the deck and places them in order on the ground. From left to right are Death, Ten of Wands, and Two of Pentacles reversed. The sisters hover over the spread for a few silent moments, leaving the cousins to send wary glances towards each other.

“Well?” Sharky asks into the opening of his bottle as he takes a sip.

“Right, so, this first card isn’t as bad as everyone thinks. It’s not just an end, but a beginning. A transition from one state of being to another,” answers Aeron, tapping a finger to Death. “Maybe something to do with all this Collapse bullshit, or whatever life holds after it.” Sharky only gives a noncommittal shrug as a response.

“And this second card means that from this transition, there will be accomplishments but burdens.” Reagan looks to him as she gestures vaguely to find the right explanation. “It’s being responsible for the role you’ve been given while also reaping the benefits from it.”

“So, what, like a give and take sorta thing?” Hurk leans closer, clearly more enthralled than his cousin.

“Basically,” Aeron slowly nods, thumb strumming the corner of the deck. “Now consider the last card: hands weighing two coins, upside-down. This role has the potential of pushing you to your limits, which could make you feel overwhelmed, out of sync. Be mindful of how much of that responsibility you can handle. You can take the weight off your shoulders, there are others to help support you.“

Sharky’s eyebrows rise high, disappearing into the shadow of his hat. He contemplates over another long drink as Aeron picks up the cards to reshuffle. Concern etches lines into Reagan’s freckled face and she reaches over to gently squeeze at his leg. _It’s okay, we’re here to help._

"My turn, my turn!” Hurk breaks the moment with his excitement. “I kinda-maybe-really hope Monkey God comes through for me.” Aeron finally lets out the laugh she held in earlier, eager to also appease this supposed primate deity. Yet his cousin grumbles and abruptly stands from his seat.

“Goddamnit, not this again! Lemme grab another beer before he starts rambling.” Sharky waves him off as he makes his way back to his trailer. As he passes Reagan, he grasps tightly at her shoulder for just a second before he disappears inside. The worry in her eyes eases a little bit.


	4. Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A torn diary page found in an abandoned house from the western Henbane region.

**I.** The water all around the county has been tainted by this sea-foam green substance. More so in the Henbane but it’s everywhere. It makes you disoriented, nearly out of body, but with this unnerving feeling of inner peace. Makes the water smell too sweet. Started smelling it all around the region, too, from those pretty white flowers. I don’t trust it. _(Blood: Ex. 7:14-24)_

**II.** These Project at Eden’s Gate followers, these Peggies, are practically crawling out of the woodwork. You see ‘em in the stores, fishing at the lakes or hunting in the woods. Collecting resources bit by bit. Now they’re starting to come into people’s homes, invited in so they can “spread Joseph’s Word”. Feels like Hope County is infested with these weirdos. Can’t turn the corner without spotting that cross. _(Frogs: Ex. 7:25-8:15)_

**III.** Heard some talk of carcasses getting left out in the fields or even along the roads. Sure, we’re used to the occasional deer or fox, but apparently it’s moose and bears, too. Though there’s rumors of human-shaped lumps discarded in the backwoods. Whatever it is, the stench of decay nearly overpowers the obnoxious swarms of flies. So many of 'em, you can almost hear the distant hum from the trees. _(Flies: Ex. 8:16-19)_

**IV.** Might have figured out what caused all that death. Bill went on a hunting trip last weekend, up in the Whitetails. In the middle of the night, he heard some unnatural growling, followed by a scream. Didn’t say if it was an animal or not. But he did peek at the predator as it went by his tent. Looked like a wolf but bigger and with a short tail, and it had a red cross painted on its head. Bill said he could have sworn he heard a whole pack of 'em howling the following night. _(Wild Animals: Ex. 8:20-32)_

**V.** We have an unspoken rule in Hope County: leave the horses alone. We’ve got cattle and sheep and goats, all the farm animals we need. But the horses were here before us – can thank the settlers and natives for that – so they feel less like livestock and more like wild spirits. But these fuckin’ Peggies took them all, one by one, rounded 'em up for themselves. Tried to contain a force of nature. They’re all dead now, somehow, some way. _(Pestilence of Livestock: Ex. 9:1-7)_

**VI.** Could you believe I’ve seen some Peggies walking around with flamethrowers on their backs? Yeah, flamethrowers. Seen 'em with molotovs and grenades, too. What the fuck is going on with this Project? No wonder there’s reports of arson, people running from their homes with blisters and half-melted skin. Jess mentioned some incidents up north, the scent of burning bodies so distinct it’s hard to forget. Maybe we should have taken this cult business more seriously. _(Boils: Ex. 9:8-12)_

**VII.** I’ve been waiting for this. There’s been too much tension lately and somebody had to snap at some point. It was at some construction site along the Henbane, supposed to become a convent for the Project. Probably a protest that got out of hand. Don’t know who started it, but I know it ended with gunfire and bullets and blood. No casualties, just serious injuries on either side. The Sheriff called it off in the end, arresting those involved. I really hope it wasn’t that Boshaw kid again. _(Hail and Fire: Ex. 9:13-35)_

**VIII.** Goddamn city-slicker lawyer, talks his way outta anything! I went to the valley for my usual apple picking at Gardenview only to find out Doug and Debbie got bought out! Sold their land and supplies over to the Seed family. That’s the third time a local business has lost its place in the county to that fuckin’ bastard. People are talking about how there’s less and less resources available from the farms, since more of them are now owned by the Project. We’ve been a self-sufficient county for years now, like Hell we’re gonna start buying in products from Missoula. _(Locusts: Ex. 10:1-20)_

**IX.** Things have gotten out of hand. Stories were going around, about people disappearing all throughout the county and coming back somehow changed or altered after a few days. I don’t wanna say I brushed it off completely, because I didn’t, but I definitely didn’t think it would happen to me. Well, not me. Bill. He went back up to the Whitetails earlier this month and when he came back he looked… twitchy? Nervous? Like he had too much pent up energy and nowhere to put it. I had mentioned going fishing in the valley, see if the fresh air could help clear his head. I regret it because he had come back worse for wear. Saw him changing a bloody bandage that night. Now he’s gone. Gone, gone. Just walked off into a field of white flowers singing Amazing Grace. I knew not to trust that sweet smell. _(Darkness: Ex. 10:21-29)_

**X.** Some folks from the Sheriff’s department came with a US marshal to arrest Joseph Seed. But the faithful wouldn’t let him go. They killed the first and only chance we had to stop the Project. Now I don’t know what we’re gonna do. Maybe Bill was right to leave. Maybe I should go find him. I don’t want to be alone anymore. _(Death of Firstborn: Ex. 11:1-12:36)_


	5. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Taggart twins reflect on the important people in their lives.

For fraternal twins Aeron and Reagan Taggart, family has become the utmost priority for them. Their beginning was rough, having been split at a young age due to unfortunate circumstances with their parents. Through numerous foster homes, Reagan was sent towards the northeast, while Aeron bounced around until she ended up in Canada. Each of them led completely separate lives, relying on half-dreamt memories of their childhood. It was only by coincidence the two reconnected in a bar nearly two and a half decades later, confirmed by their legal IDs and a matching gem-shaped birthmark above their left hip bones. From that moment on, they became inseparable and vowed to never leave the other like they had been forced to so many years ago.

Various reasons led the sisters westward, less to make a name for themselves and more to just get by without leaving a mark. However, Hope County, Montana seemed to offer potential for a more sedentary lifestyle. It was Sheriff Whitehorse who initiated the idea of community. A posting about deputy positions looked promising for Reagan and Aeron; their previous lives had led them to unsavory circumstances that brought upon the need of combat skills, which inadvertently made them decent candidates for the job. Within a few months, they signed on with the department.

Whitehorse developed into this pseudo-father figure, mentor, and counselor for the twins. They had been so disconnected from any semblance of parental guidance for a majority of their lives, and he somehow caught on to it quick. Hudson and Pratt, while at first a little hesitant about Aeron’s quick temperament and Reagan’s cool aloofness, had warmed up to their new partners soon enough. The group held the same comradery as cousins that only got together during holidays and celebrations, causing just enough ruckus that they could get away with it. The rest of the department was pleasant in the neighborly sense, but the newly-appointed deputies felt welcome all the same.

With the growing presence of the Seeds and their Project, things escalated to a point that felt like a clan war. One family against the other. But then tensions rose so great that everything boiled over in the end. The arrest sparked such an unexpected turn of events that no amount of training could have prepared them. By some miracle, Dutch saved them. He had sent in a number of calls to the department about the cult but many went unheeded. Unfortunate, considering he was now the twins’ sole source of information about the family and their Project. A little rough around the edges, not unlike a gruff old grandpa that looked mean but would still teach you how to cheat at cards.

As the events of the supposed Collapse transpired, Aeron and Reagan connected more with the residents of Hope County, banding together a close-knit resistance against Eden’s Gate. Adelaide doted over the twins like a slightly oppressive aunt, but only with good intentions. Sharky and Hurk Jr. felt like the brothers they never had. Grace, Tracey, Mary May, and Jess were the wise older sisters, offering strong words of advice. Jerome, the beloved uncle of their ragtag group. Nick and Kim, the patriarch and matriarch of the resistance. Boomer, Peaches, and Cheeseburger, the mascots of the community.

Long ago during the twelfth century, the Taggart clan was established in Scotland. For the twins, they never really considered themselves part of it. But now, amidst the insanity of a holy war, they have found their clan. A mess of personalities and skill sets, sure, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the weirdest way possible, this family finally feels like home.


	6. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reagan finally gives her confession to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is considered canon for Reagan, so there is some vagueness to some of the things she talks about since her story isn't posted yet. But I can at least say that at this point, John and Reagan have established their relationship.

“I think it’s about time you gave me a proper confession.”

Reagan’s voice from the kitchen stunned John to silence. Yet even from there, she could hear the gears turning in his head, trying to discern if this was just a form of bait for the self-proclaimed Inquisitor or if she was genuine in her request. John set his book down on the coffee table and stood from the couch, eager to give her his undivided attention if it was the latter.

“This is rather unexpected, but not unwelcome.” A lazy smile accompanied his equally lazy walk into the kitchen to find Reagan half-balancing her chair and an empty wine glass on the table. His mild head tilt and heatless glare was enough to send the front legs back down with a solid _thunk_. “Why the sudden interest?”

Reagan offered a one-shoulder shrug and a cryptic grin, eyes roaming everywhere but to him. “Never really had the chance to. Plus, all the stuff we’ve talked about before never felt… official.”

John huffed out a short laugh and nodded once, slowly pacing before her. Then his eyes landed on hers and burned right through them, peeling back the layers until he found what he wanted. Reagan was caught in his gaze and her earnest expression said it all.

“Alright then,” he agreed as he moved towards her, grabbing onto the seat of the chair and pulling her away from the table, wood scraping against wood. He situated her in the center of the kitchen, the dim glow from the overhead lamp set behind her, leaving her in half shadow and him in half light.

“We’ll start off simple.” Just like that, his presence changed with practiced ease, like the chameleon he was, from his strong posture to his exacting tone. It unnerved her, no matter how many times she’d seen it let alone been on the receiving end of it. Reagan adjusted minutely – back straightening, knees close, hands idle in her lap, a tic in her jaw. The movements weren’t lost on John, but his only response was a faint flicker in his stare. “And gradually work our way up. So we begin with _Luxuria_.”

Her initial reaction would have been to shrug it off and say he should know this one firsthand. But she knew that wasn’t the confession he was looking for. She remained quiet as she sought for the right words, though he was patient for her response. “I don’t remember how it happened, but during my former life I had developed an… interest in bedding married men. Found a thrill in the taboo. It was only for a short span of time but I regret it all the same.”

John inclined his chin, satisfied with her first confession, then began to circle around her chair, hands clasped at his lower back. He was more than aware that his lack of commentary was making her anxious. “_Gula_.”

“Whiskey and cigarettes,” she answered quickly, watching him edge closer to her periphery. A memory filtered up in the back of her mind, of him and her and that table, but she forced it back down. “I was young, about twelve or thirteen, when I first started. Haven’t let go of them since.”

“_Avaritia_.” By now, he had moved into the corner of her right eye. A quiet, mirthless laugh came from Reagan, her eyes focused on her fidgeting fingers finding loose threads in her shirt.

“You know what kind of profession I had before coming to Hope County, John.” She heard his footsteps pause and she willed the little hairs on the back of her neck to calm down. With a sigh, she continued as did he. “I enjoyed the wealth I had. The things I could buy with it, the people I could sway. Money bought me happiness and so much more.”

John was well out of her sight now. “_Acedia_.”

She pulled a face he couldn’t see, nose and mouth scrunched up as she tried to come up with an answer. “I’ve worked for so long, I actually don’t know if I can rightly say I’ve been lazy to a great degree. If I wasn’t working, I wasn’t living. So, do I get a pass on this one?”

“For now,” he conceded, voice echoing from behind. “_Ira_.”

A vicious grin stretched across Reagan’s face, eyes boring into the space he initially occupied in front of her. “I’m sure you know this one too well. Just look at the mess I’ve caused. But it didn’t start here, no. I willingly fell into a violent world of blood and bullets, allured by the destruction and the power. I wouldn’t have stayed in Hope County if I couldn’t handle it.”

He let out a thoughtful hum as he emerged on the other side, face turned towards her, attentive. “_Invidia_.”

“While in foster care, I grew to detest seeing happy families anywhere I went.” The edge in her voice remained, but shifted into melancholy, smile fading along with it. “The homes I stayed in weren’t the best, felt more like a bad summer camp than a loving familial relationship. Sometimes I thought if I could find another little girl that looked enough like me, I could just… lock her up somewhere and switch places. Just so I can understand what that kind of life was like.”

John was back where he started, in front of her with feet apart and hands still at the small of his back, rolling his shoulders gently. Cocking his head to the side, he let his usual smugness bring a faint smirk to the corners of his lips. Reagan had returned to her more upright posture, face inclined up to him. Despite the uncertainty dangling in the background of her mind, she was still determined to finish what she started, to prove to him she could bare her vices openly and without shame. Fitting for the final sin.

“_Superbia_.” He flashed white teeth at her. She mirrored his expression instantly.

“I went from being tossed aside and unwanted to highly coveted. You know what that feels like, don’t you John.” Reagan tried to turn it on him, but raised brows over bright blue eyes reined her back in. He’s already done his own confessions. Already tore himself apart only to be rebuilt again and again, had done the same to countless others. She’s more than grateful for her circumstance. “I didn’t want to be the best, I was the best. Prized for my talents, my beauty, my wit. What a fucking power trip.”

A strange mix of emotions flitted through her green gaze, too quick for him to catch any of them by hand. She laughed despite herself. Then her voice, quieter and contemplative, resumed. “I still do things to make myself look better. All in the name of self-worth.” _Your brother was right, you know_ – the words hung between breath and teeth and tongue, then were swallowed back down to the pit of her heart.

John was eerily silent, so unlike his normal self, always happy to hear the sound of his own voice. Somehow this silence was worse than anything he could have thrown at Reagan in response to her ‘misdeeds’. Her skin itched in a way she couldn’t scratch and she knew he knew it.

A gesture of his hand told her to stand and follow him as he unhurriedly walked upstairs to the bedroom, where he pointed towards the bed while he disappeared into the walk-in closet. Rummaging around rewarded him with a medium-sized bin, which he set on the nightstand.

The snap of black latex gloves set her nerves alight. Of course, she trusted John, wouldn’t have stayed with him if she didn’t. But still, a part of her remained cautious, not yet ready to let go of his past actions. The sight of the tattoo gun tugged harder at those feelings.

“Don’t worry, you’re keeping them,” he said without looking to her, seeming to sense her concern as he set up the ink. _Them_, plural. The adrenaline in her system steadily eased from bad nerves to good and she situated herself closer towards the edge of the bed.

“Off.” Covered fingers gently pulled at the hem of her shirt. “And get comfortable. It’s going to be a long session.” Reagan’s snarky retort went unspoken, though she shared a knowing glance with him before she obliged him, baring her torso then leaning back against the pile of pillows.

Before needle touched skin to begin her atonement, John leaned over to press a soft kiss and a muttered “_thank you_” to her forehead. Heat bloomed in her chest.

She would wear her sins proudly for him.


	7. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The many faces of John Seed.

Five full-face, masculine masks sit stoically under their individual spotlights, the rest of the gallery hidden in the comfort of shadows. Each resides on a pedestal with their names engraved on polished plaques.

The first is the most prominent and well-used, well-loved: _The Inquisitor_. A striking dichotomy is etched in the expression, from the twinkle of the blue eyes to the low-drawn brow. To the upticked and close-lipped smile that can offer words of kindness and reprimand, of piety and deviance, of mercy and cruelty. Blotches of ruddy brown and flecks of ash coat the facade, unknown if it is the paint or the wear and tear that has caused such blemishes.

Next is _The Brother_, which is close in style to the first but the harsher edges in facial lines are lessened. The inner corner of the brows are lifted just so. The smile is almost nonexistent, though the lips are parted softly. The eyes are widened minutely yet it conveys so much more in their placement. This face seeks reflection and devotion, also concern and melancholy. It seeks for something beyond the viewer but can never attain it. 

Possibly the most charming of them all is _The Lawyer_, whose face is stretched into an easy, wide grin, lifted slightly higher on one side than the other. A grin full of bright white teeth and cunning deception. The countenance of this one is so vivacious and bright, so self-aware and self-assured. Intelligent. Desirable. Unstoppable. It is almost unnerving how much this one covets the viewer in return, eyes alight with love and hate in the same stare.

_The Penitent_ follows in the steady regression of visual age. The lines and wrinkles are not as present as the previous three, despite the anguished look that graces this youthful face. Brows drawn up and together, eyes showing more white than blue, mouth tugged downward into a gasp and grimace. The shape of lips compared to the peak of teeth and the set of jaw appears as if the mask is in mid-speech, halfway wrenching a word from bottom of his ribs.

The final and most haunting of all the masks is _The Boy_. Compared to the rest, this one looks practically untouched, having collected a thin film of dust from years of disuse. As the youngest face, this one exudes wonder and curiosity with vibrant eyes eager to take in everything. The mouth is parted and the rounded cheeks slightly puffed as if in a gentle, but no less enraptured, exhale. Compassion filters through such a tender guise, bordering along a word unspoken in ages.


	8. Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob goes hunting. Or at least, he tries to.
> 
> Gender-neutral deputy.

Even in the stillness of the forest, silence is nearly impossible. There is a nuanced beauty in the subtle sounds. Of the gentle, rolling stream that bisects the ground through weathered rocks. Of the barely-there brush of leaves between the trees, of the whisper of grass blades. Of the faraway calls of the birds swooping through the sky at the edge of the clouds.

The quiet pulse of life.

So it takes everything in Jacob’s power to follow the established rhythm as he moves from cover to cover, to be as unseen and soundless as possible. The alpha deer he had set his sights on hours ago has finally stilled, set up as guard while the rest of the small herd graze near the banks of a lake.

He’s worth a pretty penny, but he’d look prettier trussed up on his wall.

He takes into account the placement of the sun so he can remain hidden among the shadows. The nearest hunting grounds are miles away, so he cannot rely on predetermined hunting platforms nestled up in the trees. Not that he would anyway. He prefers to blend in with the natural surroundings.

Within moments, Jacob roots himself into position, bushes and boulders offering plenty of camouflage from the buck’s watchful eyes. Only the silenced barrel of his rifle peaks through the shrubbery. He checks the direction of the breeze, aligns to the best angle, slows his breathing down to a crawl. He waits for the most opportune moment to take the shot.

He is, if anything, a patient hunter.

Then an arrow whizzes towards him, seemingly from nowhere. It makes its mark in the dirt next to his trigger hand. Withdrawing from the scope, he inspects the projectile only to find a tag taped to the shaft with the marker-written word **Mine**.

Confused and agitated, Jacob peers down the sights only to find his prey downed, a similar arrow jammed neatly into the skull. A figure emerges from the trees from across the river.

Rook smiles and waves jovially at him before setting to work skinning and gutting the animal.

Jacob could easily take them out from here, still has a bullet burning a hole into the chamber. Remove the problem child. But he can’t bring himself to do it, he’s just too impressed by the deputy. With a heavy sigh he gathers himself up, hoists the rifle onto his back, and heads to the opposite side of the mountains where he can hunt undisturbed once more.


	9. Full Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wholesome moment between Reagan and Aeron.

It is near the end of October and the evidence of autumn is abundant in the Whitetails.

A vivid sunburst is painted like a Monet across the canopies, broken up intermittently by the towering evergreens. With every step, there’s another thick layer of leaves ready to be crunched and shuffled underfoot. Fresh morning air feels like sharp evening breezes, biting and cutting but leaving you in the sense of renewal, reinvigoration. That this inhale of decaying earth can fill your lungs to capacity with so much life.

It is here amidst the thickest wood where the twins find themselves tonight. Layered up comfortably in the shadow of night and huddled close to their small campfire. They had spent the day relaxing as best as they could, retreating from the chaos and the responsibility. Hunting, fishing, treasure seeking. Things to let their minds wander and recenter.

Reagan’s eyes drift upward, not for the first time this evening. The sky is cloudless, stars laid bare for the world in all their glittering glory. Though the brightest light comes from the moon, her rays encompassing and shifting the abyss to be like indigo ink spilled across the heavens. Full and proud, the moon commands attention that is so rightly deserved.

“What’s up, Jennie?” Aeron says, even though she already knows the answer. She can see it in her expression. It’s a twin thing.

Reagan exhales a long breath, feels like a kid again attempting to be a dragon. “I just… I wonder what’s going to happen. Like, if we are still doing the right thing or if it all really matters in the end.”

“Won’t know until we try.” Aeron fusses with the logs, resetting their placements to grow the fire. “Then we can say we at least did that much. More than what most people could say, really.”

Their silence is palatable but not uncomfortable. Contemplative. Reagan lets the words sink in before expelling them in a weighted hum. Everything has been so jarring, this holy war, this Collapse. Not exactly an event anyone can truly be prepared for, especially if you unknowingly started it. All by doing what you thought was right.

The guilt sinks deeper into the bone than this chilling air.

But desperation can leave the mind both frayed and restitched, forming ideas not always considered.

So that’s when a drifting thought surfaces for Reagan, some bit of old knowledge she had read years ago but brushed off initially. She rummages through her backpack to retrieve an empty mason jar. It used to have dried fruit in it that Addie made (Reagan had been meaning to snag more on the next trip to the Henbane). She stands and motions for her sister to follow.

“You ever heard of moon water?” Reagan asks as they march to the nearest stream, idly tossing the jar between her hands.

“Nope but it sounds pretty rad.”

“It’s just water that’s set out under a full moon. But you, like, imbue it with a purpose and let the moonlight charge that purpose.”

Aeron hops into a large pile of leaves which burst like confetti, the crushing noise booming in the quiet of midnight. “Do you drink it?”

“You can,” answers Reagan with a shrug, “You can cook with it, too. Some use it in perfumes and potions. Whatever best fits the purpose, I guess.”

First, it is the fresh scent of rushing water, then the gleaming reflection of the night sky that denotes the location of the stream. Reagan fills the jar with the water then places her hand over the opening and turning to her sister. “So what purpose do you wanna give the water?”

Aeron’s left cheek and eye scrunch up as she considers the jar before her. Any number of things come to mind, some serious and others downright silly. But she opts for the former since it only seems right. “Something simple but profound. Security, comfort, and peace. Those things are like a luxury in this county. And at this point, we could use all the security we can get.”

A genuine smile breaks across Reagan’s face as she lifts her hand from the jar and repeats those three words into the water. The lid is tightly secured and the twins head back to their camp. Reagan nestles the jar between a few rocks in full view of the moon’s splendor, then nestles herself into her sleeping bag. Aeron is soon to follow suit after adding another log to the fire.

The stillness of night welcomes them with ease. Though just as she’s on the edge of sleep, Aeron picks up Reagan’s soft whisper carried on the breeze.

“_Thank you_.”


	10. Monochrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aeron has her first trial with Jacob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift to my amazing friend who has Aeron. While her story isn't out just yet, this is canon and takes place beforehand.

Liberating Elk Jaw Lodge was a bleeding heart mission, Aeron acknowledged it wholeheartedly. So when she got shot in the leg with a bliss arrow, she wasn’t exactly mad about it.

For the better part of the week, her and her sister had caused a stir in the Whitetails. First it was the lumber mill and assisting Jess with killing the Cook. Then they raised hell with Hurk, setting off too many explosives in the middle of the night. The militia were grateful for their assistance, even if Eli was a bit pushy with his requests.

But when word of mouth informed the deputies of the old lodge being used to capture wolves and turn them into Judges, well. It was a no-brainer for the two animal lovers.

In the middle of all their previous escapades, Aeron had ignored Jacob’s taunts over the radio. _He’s just acting all tough, he ain’t gonna do shit_. Now, she’s eating those words, gnawing through the cotton feeling in her mouth and swallowing them down her dry throat. Bliss is just the worst drug trip.

Past all the floating bits of light and the warbled colors, she finally makes out an image. Staci. God, it feels so good to see a familiar face. In a scolding tone, he tells her that she should’ve run. It sends anxiety coursing through her nerves.

Her heavy eyes drift around, takes in a dark room and old office chairs. None of them have Reagan, which brings a sigh of relief. Aeron had shoved her sister out of the way when she caught sight of the hunter between the trees. She remembers telling Reagan to run, go to Hurk, before everything went black.

The sudden _click_ and flash of light pull her from her thoughts. The voice textured like gravel brings her reflexively to attention. She loathes such a feeling.

“The world is weak. _Soft_.”

By now the bliss in her system had worn off completely, so she can finally take in the slideshow before her. Carcasses of prey animals, wolves with bloody mouths, grandiose talk of a world made better by removing the weak. Aeron can’t help but roll her eyes, letting agitation paint her freckled features as Jacob carried on.

“The lives of the many have outweighed the lives of the few. This is how we survived. And we’ve forgotten… and now the bill has come due.”

“I don’t know about any bill, but I do know this seems a lot like a middle schooler’s presentation on why wolves are cool.”

Aeron’s snark makes Jacob pause, his eyes immediately trained on her. Dread burns like bile in her chest, her throat. But she keeps the panic down and maintains her composure while the eldest Seed strides up to her. Hands to the armrests, he leans down yet still towers over her seated form, lets the silence edge towards uncomfortable as he studies her all too closely. He hasn’t done anything to her aside from stare and she feels like she’s being eaten alive.

For a moment, she sympathizes with those deer in the pictures.

“Now, the Collapse is upon us,” he continues, words whispered but weighted, then drags her chair towards him. Aeron’s eyes widen by a fraction, but he sees the shift, smugness flashing in his blue gaze. _Bastard_. The rest of his speech falls on deaf ears, drowned out by the sound of her rapid heartbeat.

That sense is only worsened by a sharp ringing amidst garbled lyrics. “_Only you…_”

Red engulfs her vision, her consciousness.

She runs on pure instinct then, the killing is second nature. Two dead by pistol, four by submachine gun, four more by shotgun. All of them burst into flames. Aeron loses count as she runs through the corridors and disjointed rooms and broken structures. Everything is painted in a harsh wash of crimson. Her hands and clothes are covered in blood that isn’t hers. Vermilion lingers in her periphery; her heart pounds so hard it feels like her veins are going to burst. Everything is red, red, _red-_

With each kill and stage completed, his words of encouragement fuel that raging inferno within her. Fuel the desire to be rewarded. Praised.

“_Well done_.”

“_Keep going_.”

“_Excellent_.”

It feels too familiar, feels like a life she left behind. When she killed for less honorable means. When she was made into a useful tool. A machine. It terrifies her how easily she falls into step.

Finally, the last opponent is downed, made into the bright fire she has left in her wake. A long tunnel made of chunks of concrete and jagged steel bars is the only way forward. Aeron jumps and slides down until all that scarlet fades into the abyss.

Time seems to have slipped out from under her. She stirs to wakefulness, eyes unfocused, limbs throbbing with pain. Sound is distant, veiled by a subtle yet piercing din lingering on her ear drums. Shapes move across the room, voices muffled, then she’s suddenly being hoisted up in her chair only to be dropped once more. _Ow_.

Eli and Wheaty free the deputy from her bonds and drag her from that god forsaken room. She slips in and out as they get her back to the Wolf’s Den.

That night, Aeron sleeps fitfully with dreams of red.


	11. Tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John questions Reagan about one of her pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little slice of life moment between these two. The tattoo in question is heavily inspired by Amrit Brar's Gemini illustration in [Book X of Shitty Horoscopes.](http://www.amritbrarillustration.com/book-x)

“You haven’t told me about this one yet,” John says sleepily, thoughtfully, as his forefinger traces along the thin lines of the tattoo encompassing the side of Reagan’s right hip. His voice draws her out of her haze and focuses on the ink in question, shifting among the pile of pillows and sheets she’s half-cocooned in.

Twin spires of flowers span her skin from upper thigh to the blade of her pelvis, settled at a semi-V shape. Lavender and lily-of-the-valley, bunched neatly together in separate bundles. Overtop the bundles in a half circle is “_may fortune favor the fuckups_” written in dainty, little letters. All done in slim lines of black ink, though the color has since faded to a dark, muted navy.

“My first piece,” Reagan answers, fondness coating her tired tone. “Just turned eighteen, finally an _adult_. Which was bullshit, because even in my thirties I don’t feel like one.” With a small scoff, she sits herself up a bit more by her elbows to better examine the tattoo.

“At any rate, I wanted something I could show off for, you know, _work_. I basically told the artist three things: I want it to be feminine, with these flowers, all in black. That’s it. The words weren’t a part of the initial design, though. That came at the end, after talking to her for hours about the ups and downs of life. When even at the worst, there’s gotta be some good in it all.” A profound statement hidden within those inked words, something that’s become a personal motto. Something that she still relies on to this day.

John presses his thumb into the worn letters that arch across her hip. The edges have bled and fuzzed out in places, but still the lines are clean and even. His fingertips brush lightly over the flowers and their stems, testing for any scarring; there’s none to be found. For a first tattoo done on a whim, Reagan had obviously sought out the right artist. A small pang of jealousy settles in his chest, knowing that he wasn’t the first to leave a mark. But he shoves it down, placated by the fact that he can be her next, her last. Her always.

Reagan can see him thinking too hard, the silence growing more between them. She inhales lightly, ready to fill the space, but he beats her to it.

“Would you mind if I retouched it for you?”

The question comes out in a rush of breath, almost like a whisper. Like he’s scared to ask it in the first place, that taking on such a responsibility aches. It’s not his work, he doesn’t want to mess it up, doesn’t want to _fail_ her-

“I would be more than honored to have you breathe some life into this old ink.”


	12. Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reagan seeks out help from an unlikely source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Southern Gothic AU, with John as a demon. Influenced by Colter Wall's [The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqR1cjuPXUg) and The Pretty Reckless' [Take Me Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQpZv2r8fb4)

Maybe Reagan should have heeded her mother’s words. Maybe she should have attended service more. Maybe she should have tried a little harder to be a good person.

But she didn’t. So here she was, standing alone in the middle of a dirt crossroad in the dead of night, surrounded by cotton and tobacco like witnesses to her metaphorical hanging. Or literal, she knows what she’s gotten herself into.

The ritual was simple. Put some graveyard dirt in a bottle along with a few drops of her own blood and bury the bottle at the center of the intersection. Then wait.

It felt like hours, but it could have equally been minutes. Time didn’t seem the same once Reagan fully covered the bottle. The wind stopped rustling the sentinel oaks. Birds didn’t cross the starless sky. She couldn’t smell the peach trees anymore. Everything was stagnant, encased in a time capsule. Even the taste of her cigarettes was nothing more than the ash they produced.

Then a rumble like thunder vibrated through her, shaking her already frazzled nerves. She stood from her ritual spot and turned to see headlights. Her first instinct was to run out of the way, but the car’s deceleration made her pause. Or maybe it was the fear jolting through her nerves.

The sound of cutting the engine was vacuumed up in a black hole. The glare of the headlights imprinted starry aftereffects behind her eyes.

The moment he stepped out of the car, she hated him. Hated the ostentatious flare of his ancient Cadillac. Hated the oil-slick shine of his pointed boots, the heady waft of expensive cologne, the arrogance worn like second skin. Hated how neat and put together he was, dark hair and beard perfectly trimmed, all crisp folds and angular lines in a tailored suit.

But what Reagan hated most of all was his eyes.

Twin sapphires, menacing and piercing. Their icy glare burrowed into her bones, keeping her frozen in place when all she wanted to do was _run_. Everything about this man screamed trouble, malice, deceit.

And yet she was stupid enough to answer his question, to show she was willing.

“What do you wish for?” His voice smoothed over the words, tone clear of any accent known for miles. It crawled along her skin, dug into her veins, made a home where it didn’t belong. 

“I wish for a better life,” she said with a shaky breath. “I wish for fame and fortune, just like everyone else.”

“But you’re not like everyone else, are you Reagan Taggart.” He pronounced her name correctly, but without the sweet drawl she’s used to, consonants and vowels too short and exact for her liking. With some hesitation, she silently shook her head.

“No, that’s why you’re here,” he continued as he stepped closer, shoulders square, hands splayed outward to show he meant no harm. Another lie. “That’s why you summoned me. Everyone else wallows in their self-pity, their self-destruction. You decided to do something about it. All in the name of _Superbia_.”

Reagan couldn’t meet his gaze as she nodded in admission, _confession_. She briefly took note of his shadow in the moonlight, of the form he truly was. It’s too late to run.

“Now…” He pulled her head upright, forefinger to chin, forced her to meet his sharp gaze. “What do you offer for this wish?”

Her throat tightened up, breath caught in her chest, mouth filled with cotton. This was it, this was what she wanted, right? She went all this way, waited all this time, to finally have recognition. Glory. Her apprehension amused him, made him smile with a mouthful of teeth and broken promises.

“My soul.”

Her voice wasn’t her own, didn’t even feel the draw of breath or the fold of her tongue around those two little words. But he stole them greedily in a kiss, gave no opportunity for her to renege. He tasted like Hell itself, of fury and fire.

They sealed the deal and thus, her fate.


	13. Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook likes sentimental things.
> 
> Gender-neutral Rook. Medieval AU.

They are simply known as the Crow. A masterful and elusive thief that seeks only the most valuable of sentimental items to add to their collection. A majority are plucked from the hands of the wealthy, those who could easily replace the items or bribe their way out of any situation. The Crow often hoards their stolen goods, though will occasionally find a useful place for them among the common folk.

Draped in the cloak of night, moving as silently as a shadow, they maneuver through the city with practiced ease. Every nook and cranny, every crack and chip, mapped out perfectly in their mind. They know all the best hiding spots and escape routes should they be given chase. The only weapon they carry is a small knife, utilitarian in design, wooden handle fitting comfortably in the palm of their gloved hand. It’s rarely ever used on another person; the Crow is a thief, not a murderer.

Tonight, they first visit the church, slipping through corridors and slinking past acolytes, until they arrive in the Inquisitor’s chamber. A den of despair and torment that stems from false ideals of personhood and faith. The air tastes stale and metallic. It is best not to linger too long. The Inquisitor’s favored dagger, such an ostentatious thing that flaunts the wealth of the church, is swiped quickly from its elevated place from the tools table. It weighs heavy at their side.

Just re-entering the main space of the church brings fresher air to their lungs. They head off towards the back of the building, into the reliquary. The Priest dotes endlessly over these artifacts encased in materials worth more than the rags these martyrs died in. The Crow has seen him favor one in particular – a rib bone of a saint encased in a box of glass and ivory. It finds a new home wrapped in a humble scrap of cloth tucked neatly into their pouch.

The next stop is the castle, a place of high risk and high reward. They haven’t taken directly from the royal family (yet) and instead procure items from lesser nobility and rank. The home of the Knight is in complete opposition to the flamboyance of the church, settling for a more homey and functional appeal. Some things stick out: a shining suit of armor perched on a dummy, prized lances mounted above the fireplace, a hefty coin purse not-so-hidden beneath a false floorboard. But the heraldic standard with dual snarling wolf charges catches their eye.

Finally, the Crow heads into the Lady’s chamber found at the west wing of the castle. Numerous halls with numerous doors, from salons to libraries to bathing rooms galore. Though, it is the latter that interests them the most. It takes some time sifting through the various cupboards and dressers until they find exactly what their looking for. A seemingly innocuous glass vial with a silver topper containing a translucent pale green perfume. They end up locating it by scent alone, so noxiously sweet and pungent.

Just as the dusting of dawn peeks over the horizon, as the shroud of night is lifted from shut eyes, the Crow is safely stowed away in their home beyond the city limits. Four new trinkets have been placed accordingly in the little showcase. With a weary but pleased smile, the thief sleeps, dreaming of new things to steal.


	14. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crumpled note found in Dutch’s bunker.
> 
> Worst End AU.

<s>To whom it may concern:</s>

To the people of Hope County:

I failed you. I failed you all. I started the Collapse, I brought upon the end. I should have walked away from the start, but I didn’t because I thought I was doing the right thing. I always thought so, I only had the best intentions in mind. And look what good that did me. You’re all gone. All that’s left behind are the shadows that creep into my mind as I lie awake at night, the after images that haunt me in the worst way. I could have done more, could have done better. But I didn’t.

To the people of the Project:

I know you all thought me a being of bullets and knives that did nothing but slaughter and destroy everything that could have saved us. I was Wrath incarnate. I had thought we were on opposite sides, that I was the good to your evil. But now I see that we are one and the same. I could have learned about you rather than fight you. Your lives, countless, all taken by my hand without a second thought. You don’t even have a proper grave. I hope you can still walk through onto Eden. Purgatory is not kind to lost souls.

To the Father:

You knew it all from the start. These impossible events, manifested through me, made real. Horrifyingly real. I tore apart your project, your faithful, your family. And after all of that, you took me from the wreckage I wrought, placed me in a prison disguised as a sanctuary. You tried to help me, but I am beyond saving. But you knew that too, didn’t you. You let me take your life. At least I gave you the burial you deserved. So why do I feel your presence every waking minute? I have made you my personal ghost, the penance for my sins.

<s>I’m sorry everyone.</s> I wish I was sorry.


	15. Skeleton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that remains of Hope County's hero.

Buried in a humble grave lies the remains of an infamous individual, of the diligent deputy and the faithful judge.

A year has gone by since their passing. Natural decomposition has done its part, breaking down organs and tissues and nerves, until all that’s left is the skeleton. 

There’s a story etched into these earth-covered bones, one of perseverance and hopefulness. Hairline fractures like fissures in cliffsides are the backdrop to this ivory landscape. Some expand deeper into fault lines, points of mild blunt force trauma found at the skull, ulnas, and tibias. Peppered across are small, rocky formations from osteoarthritis, built up at the fingers, elbows, shoulders, hips, knees. A clean cut carves out a shallow valley at the midshaft of the right femur; the lasting mark of an arrowhead.

Deep gauges from old gunshot wounds are healed over with new bone, basket woven and messy. More irregular hills are created at the ribs, snapped near the ends and never set right. Another mound at the left clavicle, broken and slightly malformed but still functional. Both shoulders ruined from dislocations, with bony growths lingering at the joint, the humeral head eroding a new home into the scapula. Slight scoliosis shifts the upper spine, at the top of the thoracic vertebrae. The vertebral bodies have degraded at the lumbar – warped wedges, lopsided and lumpy.

None of this trauma had caused their death. No, the pelvis claims they were of an older age, having lived well past the time they had gained these injuries. Instead, nature had taken its course as it is wont to do.

They had seen the End and the Beginning, survived through so much turmoil. Their body was a testament to their willpower and unyielding strength, though grown weary as life carried on.

But it’s okay now. It is time to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a nerd for bones. I got my MA in bioarchaeology and I LOVE human osteology. Please forgive me if I used a bit too much jargon.


	16. Trick or Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins check out O'Hara's Haunted House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More canon stuff for Reagan and Aeron. Also, Happy Halloween!

“Do we _really_ have to do this?”

“John asked me to see what this place was all about.” Reagan said as she stepped out of the truck, taking in the sight of this dilapidated-barn-turned-freak-show. “It’s right at the edge of the valley. None of the Peggies have gone near it.”

Aeron stubbed out her cigarette on the sole of her boot. “Yeah, probably for good reason.”

A grimace stretched across Reagan’s face, conceding to her sister’s statement. O'Hara’s stuck out like a sore thumb, planted in the middle of grassy fields and tucked into a corner between regions. Crafted from the skeleton of an old barn, it was a veritable Frankenstein’s monster with its barbed wire, strung lights, and rusted signs. A self-proclaimed “_live horror show_”, the implications of which Reagan really didn’t want to linger on.

A note left at the front door (_electronically locked, great_) hinted that some stash was up for grabs to whoever could make it through the haunted house. The fact it hasn’t been claimed yet did little to settle their nerves.

And why they decided to come here at dusk was beyond them.

With a few hops and a couple of jumps, the twins made it into the attic of the side house. The mannequins in the corner made them pause and silently stare at each other before Aeron hit the switch to unlock the barn door. She let her sister use the zipline first, waiting for her to hit the ground. Halfway down the line, Aeron caught a figure in the upper window of the barn. Only for a moment, though. She shrugged it off as some hallucination from the nearby bliss field.

“I don’t trust this,” Reagan confessed, checking her pistol ammo for the umpteenth time. “Stick close and stay alert.” Aeron nodded in agreement and cocked her shotgun.

The first jumpscare earned the brunt of Aeron’s trigger finger.

Normally, the deputies wouldn’t be so on edge in a regular haunted house – especially ones with scare actors and obvious animatronics. However, the woman that just popped out of the hay pile looked more life-like than the adjacent mannequins.

Reagan cautiously leaned in to inspect the damage dealt to the dummy, only to withdraw a second later. There’s no wires or metal bars inside the woman. Just wet, dark red.

Fuck.

“Ronnie… _run_.”

The rest of the haunted house went by in a panicked blur, nervous adrenaline fueling them to sprint to the end. More people jumped out at them, stiff and propped up by poles and boards. All-too-real screams crackled through ancient speakers. Lights strobed all around, a blinding effect. A car nearly ran into them. Aeron suckerpunched a taxidermied bear.

Past the traumatizing corridor of headless mannequins, Reagan hoisted herself through a hole in the ceiling, then helped her sister up. They took a moment to catch their breath, both with white knuckles and pale faces.

Live horror show, indeed.

Just when they thought the worst was over, more than ready to claim their rewards and leave immediately, Aeron tensed up and grew wide-eyed, her gaze just beyond Reagan’s shoulder. Reagan slowly turned to follow her twin’s eyeline.

A torture bed surrounded by mannequins. A desk with a CCTV and an old camera. A bathtub with a trash bag filled with something rotten. Blood on the floor. A singular red balloon.

A lit cigar.

“I saw him,” Aeron spoke up, voice barely above a whisper.

“Who?”

“I guess O'Hara. I saw him up here after we flipped the door switch. Was he… watching us?”

Fear like ice left cold, sharp shards in Reagan’s stomach. Wordlessly, she made her way around the attic, while Aeron quickly grabbed the cash, magazines, and supplies from the shelves. She found a note in the armchair beside the bed. Reading it confirmed her suspicions about Mr. O'Hara, none of them comforting.

Maybe it’s a good thing the Project never got a hold of this guy.

The phone on the desk flashed ominously at them. Aeron braved pressing the voicemail button. Staticky heavy breathing filled the space, sending a rush of chills down their spines. The laughter at the end of the message was something they both wish they could forget. But they can’t. Everything about Hope County gets imprinted upon you.

Aeron squeezed Reagan’s wrist. “Let’s go. _Now_.”

The deputies climbed out of the window, not wanting to experience the horror show all over again. Night had fallen and the lit-up signs behind them cast an eerie glow. They ran down the hill, gripping each other’s forearms, eyes frantic as they tried to make sense of the shadows around them.

They nearly tumbled when Reagan abruptly stopped, mouth agape. Aeron swore and gathered herself up, ready to rant at her sister, until she saw what caused her to halt.

The truck was gone.

Their simultaneous scream echoed beyond them as they booked it down the road and across the bridge, back to the valley.


End file.
